


Ulterius Ne Tende Odiis

by ornithomancy



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornithomancy/pseuds/ornithomancy
Summary: The Commander can't avoid Mox forever while on the Avenger





	Ulterius Ne Tende Odiis

Late at night like this, with only the creaking of the Avenger and the ambient sounds from outside serenading her, the Commander can almost believe she is at peace.  

 

She sits on the floor of the armory with a rifle in pieces around her as she cleans it. Her hands still when she hears footsteps echoing behind her. They’re the uniform footsteps of someone military trained, but they bear no resemblance to Bradford’s. In fact, they’re a bit too heavy to be entirely human. She feels the peace she had slip between her fingers.

 

“Mox,” she greets, not turning around. She resumes wiping the barrel down. “If the soldiers are still causing trouble for you in the barracks, that’s an issue for the morning.”

 

The footsteps stop just behind and to her right, and she can feel the skirmisher’s gaze looking over the pieces of the rifle. “They have done nothing to bother me today, I think they are finally learning,” he says. “I was hoping to speak with you, actually.”

 

She freezes and glances at her watch. It was much too early for the late shift to be done, so she couldn’t use that as an out. “Most people don’t tend to bring up issues at half past one in the morning. How did you even know I’d be awake?” she asks. “I’ll be retiring for the night after I finish with this rifle.”

 

“I had heard that Central was on duty tonight, so I assumed you’d still be awake as well,” he explains. There’s no hint of judgement in his voice, but the Commander bites back a grimace.

 

“I’ll be retiring for the night once I finish with this rifle, so if it cannot be solved quickly, it’s best left for morning.”

 

“I’ve wanted to speak of this for a while, I will try and make it brief.”

 

The Commander is silent for a few moments. “Sit,” she orders at last, moving a few pieces of the rifle to make space for him. She waits until she sees him settle himself in her peripheral vision, then resumes her task. “What do you wish to discuss?”

 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

 

The skirmisher’s word’s aren’t accusative, but they still cut. “What makes you say that?” she asks, trying to be casual.

 

“You trying to get me to leave just a moment ago,” he starts matter-of-factly. “You put your own men on missions instead of me, even if they’re tired - unless it’s a mission where you want me to help with the Lost hoards or you think the Warlock might appear. I’ve seen you dine with nearly every person on this ship, but you always have something more important to do when I sit with you. When by chance you can’t run right away, you rarely - if ever - address me directly.”

 

She is silent for a few moments, letting his observations soak in. This was just the reason she hadn’t wanted to have this discussion. “And did you not think it all just coincidence? I’ve a resistance to lead, I’ve many I need to talk to on a daily basis, I don’t purposely try to avoid talking to any of my own people,” she lies.

 

“I’m not one of your ‘people’ though, aren’t I?”

 

Mox’s words aren’t laced with anger or resentment, just fact. It makes the Commander still again. 

 

“I know you’re short with Betos as well, when you speak to her directly. You’re far more talkative to the Reapers - and even the Templars - but us Skirmishers you keep yourself terse. I had heard that you were less disparaging than other resistance leaders, but you have so far proven to be just like them,” Mox continues. 

 

She is silent for a while until she finishes cleaning the rifle. When she puts the last part down, she sighs and sits back enough to finally look at him. “It’s… difficult to come to terms with,” she starts sheepishly. “Since aliens have arrived on Earth they’ve done nothing but make my life a living nightmare - in more ways than I could have imagined possible. Even once this war is over, I will never truly know peace again,” she explains. “I swore to the council that I would eliminate the alien threat, and I couldn't. Every one I see now is a reminder of how I’ve failed, of everything we’ve lost.”

 

Mox lowers his head as he listens to her, but he does not interrupt. “I do not blame you for wanting to kill every alien you meet, but surely you recognize that we’re not like our ADVENT brethren still in the cities? We too want to see the Elders gone,” he replies softly.

 

“You’ve already proven yourselves as friends to the resistance, I know.”

 

“But you still refuse to trust us with anything more than the Lost.”

 

The Commander sighs again and lifts a hand to rub at the back of her neck. Outright saying  _ You shouldn’t exist _ seemed unnecessarily harsh when Mox was making an effort to build a bridge. “I find it difficult to trust anything that ADVENT held in its clutches for so long.”

 

“And what of your men?” Mox asks.

 

She eyes him, not quite understanding. “None of them were created by ADVENT to serve their own purposes,” she replies.

 

He sighs. “I mean, do your men not trust you? You were not grown by the aliens, yes, but you were a part of them for longer than I have existed. We have a shared experience.”

 

“We are  _ not _ alike.”

 

“Are we not? We were both used by ADVENT for their own purposes, the chips in our heads making us bend to the Elders’ will, whether we wanted to or not. They forced you to command us, and us to carry out their atrocities. They shaped the both of us into what we are now, for better or for worse. And yet despite this, your people trust you wholeheartedly and follow your orders without hesitation.”

 

The Commander squeezes her eyes shut, but remains silent. Her fingers brush against the bottom edge of the scars from her surgery, the physical proof of Mox’s words. A muscle in her back spasms involuntarily.

 

“They had to listen to Central singing my praises for twenty years, it wasn’t as though I had to convince them from scratch,” she retorts.

 

“From what I understand, most also dismissed him as a raving madman who never dealt with the loss of XCOM. Until you were recovered, that is.”

 

She opens her mouth to argue, but she can’t find the words. Shen and Tygan had informed her about how poorly Bradford had become in the past two decades. “Even so, it gave them enough reason to let me prove myself.”

 

“Your people have given you the benefit of the doubt regarding your ties to ADVENT, and you have shown that it was worth their while. All I ask is that you afford us the same, so that we may prove our loyalty to you. We want to see the resistance succeed just as much as you do,” he continues. “Our experiences under ADVENT make the two of us more similar to each other than anyone else on this ship.”

 

Silence stretches between them for a few moments. “Perhaps you have a point. Maybe we do share  _ some _ similarities,” she says at last. She straightens up again and picks up pieces of the rifle to put it back together. “I will make sure you are included on more missions, and I will make an effort to not be so short with the rest of the Skirmishers.”

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Instead of leaving, like she had expected, Mox remains seated beside her. He quietly hands her each piece of the rifle in turn until it is reassembled. She checks the time, then replaces the rifle and trades it for the next one to clean. 

 

“Weren’t you going to go to bed?” Mox asks, an amused smirk pulling at his lips. 

 

She rolls her eyes. “We both know that was a poor lie, at best. I won’t be able to sleep for a while longer yet. Surely you could use some rest, though, yes?”

 

“I find it difficult to fall asleep myself, likely for many the same reasons you do,” he explains, his voice carrying none of the shame that a human soldier’s might have. “With no one to talk to, my mind strays to the horrid things I’ve done. Usually I work out until I’m exhausted, but I’ve been restless tonight.”

 

The Commander hesitates for a moment, then glances up at him. “How much do you remember?” she asks. She can feel a tendril of guilt starting to curl in her stomach despite her efforts to distract herself.

 

“All of it,” he says, shaking his head. “We did not have the mercy of being in stasis like you, Commander. We had to be aware of everything happening, of everything we did.”

 

“Apologies,” she replies quietly. “I did not intend to drag up any resentment.”

 

“None of us Skirmishers resent you, Commander. We know you suffered more than we did.”

 

Silence fills the air again, neither of them quite knowing what to say. Mox picks up a few pieces of the rifle and a rag to help. Eventually he speaks up again. “I am a bit curious about you, Commander. I once had your orders in my head thanks to ADVENT, and now I find myself listening to your orders again of my own free will, but I still know nothing about you,” he says. “Nothing other than the rumors that make their way around the Avenger.”

 

She grimaces at that and mutters a curse under her breath. “Nothing will stop them from gossiping, will they?” she muses. “If you’ve anything you’re dying to know, feel free to ask. You may find that I am more chatty during the day, though.”

 

He nods and then hesitates, like he’s suddenly unsure if he should even continue. “I like asking your people about where they grew up, about the Earth before this happened. Would you mind sharing?” he asks eventually.

 

Despite her earlier apprehensiveness about the alien-turned-ally, the Commander laughs and a smile lights her face. “I don’t mind, don’t worry. I’ve spent most of my life in the US, but my home will always be Plzeň,” she begins, voice bursting with joy. Her smile falls a fraction. “I imagine the city has been condemned to the Lost now.”

 

Talking about home was bittersweet, but they carefully skirt the topic of the fates of those living there at the time. As depressing as the topic could be, it made for a far better distraction from all the horrors in her mind than cleaning guns. After they’d finished the one they were working on, neither of them had traded it for another, instead electing to continue to sit and chat while the rifle sat forgotten between them. 

 

The sound of the door opening and an aborted name draws both of their attentions. Bradford is staring at them in surprise, but he quickly composes a professional appearance once more. “Commander, Mox,” he greets, approaching them. “I knew you were here earlier, Commander, I was worried that you were having headaches again.” The excuse is flimsy and all three of them know it.

 

Mox smiles knowingly as he stands. “Don’t let me bother you two,” he says. With that, he grabs the rifle and replaces it on the wall, then disappears back to the barracks. 

 

Bradford offers a hand to the Commander to help her up, looking confused once more. “Since when do you and Mox get along?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Since just now. He made me see some things that I had been too stubborn to admit to earlier,” she explains, hauling herself up. “I should speak with Betos tomorrow, supposing ADVENT leaves us alone long enough.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find a bit of time to contact her. But,” he pauses to stifle a yawn, “we can figure that out in the morning. I don’t know why I ever agreed to take over Gao’s shift.”

 

She laughs and pats his back. “Because as much as you hate to believe it, you’re the mother hen of the entire resistance,” she teases. “You care too much to force someone else to take an extra shift.”

 

He grumbles at the accusation, but doesn’t offer any rebuttals. Instead he gently guides them back towards the Commander’s quarters so they could get some much needed sleep. 

 

“You should talk about your home more,” he says quietly, once the door is closed and they’re out of range of anyone that could overhear them. “You always sound happier when you do. Or when talking with Horák.”

 

“The past is best left where it lies, I shouldn’t grasp on to something that will never return. I don’t need more guilt to eat away at my heart,” she sighs. She can feel his gaze on her as she washes the dirt off of her hands. “I could teach you Czech, if you wanted.”

 

She sees him grin in the mirror. “I was going to ask before, but there never seemed to be a good time.”

 

“Better now than never,” she replies. “My mother would chew me out if I she knew I hadn’t taught you any yet, honestly, so it’s about time.”

 

There’s a glint in his eye as though he wants to ask when she turns, but for better or worse he holds his tongue. “Hopefully you don’t mind my horrid pronunciation,” he says instead.

 

“You can practice with Horák as well,” she offers. She pauses to take the pins out of her hair, her face twisting into a grimace. “Then again, I can only imagine the rumors that will spawn from you butchering Czech.”

 

“Probably nothing worse than what’s already being spread,” he assures, laughing. He stops to yawn again, then rolls over. “Hurry up and come to bed, you’ve still got to get up at a normal time.”

 

“Not helping with that whole “mother hen” thing, you know,” she retorts. Nevertheless, she collapses in bed a few moments later and yawns. “I’ll try not to wake you when I get up.”

 

“It’s not as though I’ll get much sleep after you get up anyways,” he murmurs.

 

He adjusts so he can curl into her side and her hand comes to rest in his short hair. She knows it will only last a moment, but she feels peace settle in her chest once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this pretty much ready to post for like a week and a half and so here you go
> 
> Ulterius ne tende odiis - Go no further down the road of hatred


End file.
